Under Pressure
by original-star-girl-78
Summary: Gene Hunt's Saturday goes from bad to worse when a mysterious death leads to an even more mysterious visitor.


**Under Pressure**

It's noon on a Saturday. And Saturday, for your information, is my day off. Right about now, I should be having a shit, shower and shave before heading down to Maine Road to watch the Blues gubbing Liverpool. But no; some tree-hugging poofter carks it and gets left behind the bins at the back of The Midland, which means that yours truly, the Gene Genie, has to sort it out because none of the useless bastards at the station knows their arses from their bloody elbows. Bang goes my afternoon at the footy, swilling the amber nectar.

Ray and Chris are already waiting for me in my office when I burst through the door. Ray's chewing Wrigley's Spearmint gum like he's been on speed, and by his hand gestures alone I can see he's telling Chris about some tart with knockers like Space Hoppers. They're guffawing away like Tweedledum and Tweedle-bloody-dee, but they soon shut up when they see I've got a face like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle.

‛Spill it,' I growl, without any preamble. The quicker I get the facts, the quicker I can get out of here. With any luck, I'll be back home watching Grandstand with me tea before you can say Findus Crispy Pancakes.

‛Looks like a weird one, Guv,' Ray pipes up first. ‛White male, possibly early thirties. No ID on him. Dressed up like a right ponce, cloak and everything.'

‛So he got done over for looking like a queer. Case closed,' I sneer, about to congratulate myself on a swift deduction by pouring a shot of Famous Grouse from the bottle I keep habitually in my desk drawer.

‛This is the thing, Guv,' Chris chimes in. ‛Fella didn't have a scratch on him. No bruises, no bullet holes, no bleeding, no nothing. Coroner says his blood didn't show any signs of heart attack or stroke. He just... died.'

I took a deep swig of the whiskey, feeling the familiar burning sensation in my throat. ‛So instead of a Good Samaritan calling an ambulance, some nutter decides to plonk him in a bin?'

‛We don't know who this bloke is, we don't know what killed him and we don't know how he got in them bins,' Ray clarified. ‛But there's a man downstairs who wants to see you, who says he does.'

I raise my eyebrow at this before necking the last of the whiskey and heading for the door, leaving Ray and Chris watching me like a pair of guppies.

‛Well, come on then! What are you waiting for? A bloody written invitation?'

The two-thirds of the Three Stooges finally engage their brains and follow me down to the interview room. Sometimes I wonder how the bloody hell those two made it into the force.

oOo

The interview room, as we politely call it, is nothing more than a dusty box room stuffed with case files from floor to ceiling, with filing cabinets rammed into the spaces not otherwise occupied by shelves. Cardboard boxes full of paperwork are shoved up against the shelves here and there. There's a couple of plastic chairs and an old wooden desk, on which there sits a dilapidated reel-to-reel, a lamp and an overflowing ashtray. It's dark and it reeks of smoke and sweat, due to the lack of window. That's the glamour of working for Greater Manchester Police. The Ritz it ain't.

Sitting in one of the chairs is a grumpy-looking bastard, scowling at me like I'd just shat in his cuppa. He's got long, greasy black hair and a hooked nose that you could open a Party Seven with. His black eyes are suspicious, and his arms are folded across his chest in a classic defensive pose. He's wearing all black, and I wonder idly if he's one of them heavy metal goths.

‛I'm DCI Gene Hunt. And who the bloody hell are you?' I ask curtly, looking down my nose at the stranger with my lip slightly curled.

The stranger didn't flinch.

‛Who I am is irrelevant,' he replied silkily. ‛I have some information regarding the man found behind the hotel that you might find... _pertinent_.'

_Pertinent, my arse_, I thought, watching the greasy git's eyes glitter in the dim, musty light.

‛Well, get on with it. I haven't got all day.'

The dark man's scowl deepened at this. ‛This information is for your ears only,' he said pointedly, glaring at Chris and Ray like they were something he'd just scraped off his shiny black boots.

I sighed. It wasn't unusual for a grass to demand a bit of privacy. ‛You heard the man. Wait outside.'

Chris and Ray exchanged an exasperated look and reluctantly left the room. I could tell Ray was disappointed; he always liked a good interrogation and was first to get stuck in with his fists when things started to get a bit tasty.

I waited until I heard the door click shut behind them before I spoke again.

‛Spit it out, then,' I said, raising my hands towards the stranger. ‛I'm all ears.'

_And you're all nose_, I finished in my head. That was some conk he had there. Talking of noses, he was starting to get right up my hooter and all.

‛You will cease your investigations into this case immediately,' the greasy bastard said coolly. ‛It is none of your business. Failure to comply will lead to your untimely death also.'

His eyes flashed in a way that said this wasn't up for discussion. He clearly hadn't reckoned on messing with the Gene Genie. Now I really was pissed off.

‛Are you threatening me?' I growled, placing my hands either side of the desk and leaning forwards. One more word from him and I'd smash that massive schnozzle right into the back of his head.

‛You can take it as a threat if you wish,' the oily twat replied, ‛or you can take it as a promise. Either way, you should heed it as a warning.'

His voice was cold. Something about his lack of intimidation unsettled me. But more than that, it made me bloody angry. This was my patch, my yard. Who the hell was this long-haired, skinny little nonce, coming in to my police station and telling me what I could and couldn't do?

I could feel my adrenaline swell along with the rush from the shot of whiskey, and I was ready to show this slimy hippy just how we do things in Her Majesty's constabulary. I grabbed him by the throat and raised my fist, ready to feel the satisfying crack of nasal cartilage against bone, when the bastard whipped out a long, pointed stick from nowhere and swung it at my chest. A flash of white escaped from the end of the stick and I was flung, arse-over-tit, landing on top of one the boxes of paperwork.

As I scrabbled to get up, the big-nosed arsehole was already on his feet, pointing that stick at me again. His eyes were blazing with contempt.

‛I'll tell you once more, Muggle: the man's death is no concern of yours.'

Before I'd had chance to comprehend what he'd just called me, he yelled a word I did not understand and another jet of white light hit me square in the chest, making me crumple to the ground. Now, I'm used to fights, and the pain of a well-thrown punch does not frighten me one little bit. But this... this was something else. It felt like red-hot knives were scraping away at my insides, that thousands of tiny needles were forcing their way through my skin. I could barely breathe, let alone scream.

Then, just as quickly as it started, the pain stopped.

‛Do you understand me?' The black-haired bastard snarled, his stick still pointing at my chest. ‛Or do you want some more?'

I won't lie, I nearly shat myself right then and there. I had no idea what the hell that stick was, but my survival instinct told me that Gene Hunt was no match for it. I couldn't get out of the room fast enough. I ran straight past Ray and Chris. I hadn't been that frightened since me dad beat seven shades of shit out of me mam when I was twelve.

When Ray and Chris found me, I was hiding round the corner from Phyllis in reception, with my back pressed tightly against the wall, breathing hard. I could feel a trickle of sweat running down between my shoulder blades. I was shaking slightly; too scared to fart in case I followed through.

‛What the hell happened, Guv?' asked Ray, looking spooked. ‛Where did he go?'

‛What do you mean, where did he go?' I snapped, inwardly cursing the incompetence of my two DCs. ‛Don't tell me Laurel and Hardy here let that bloody Alice Cooper tribute act escape from under your noses!'

‛No, Guv,' said Chris, in that annoying earnest way of his. ‛We checked the room straight after you ran out, and he'd gone.'

I held on to the cool, tiled wall for support, my head reeling. I don't believe in god, fairies or magic, but whatever that big-nosed twat had just done was not normal. Suddenly, I just didn't want to be in this building any more. There was only one thing for it.

‛Right then. Pub,' I muttered, peeling myself from the wall and walking towards the main entrance.

‛Guv? What about the case? What about the disappearing guy?'

I stopped, turned, and looked Ray straight in the eyes.

‛There is no case. And I need a drink.'

As I turned around, I could sense that Ray and Chris were staring at me like I'd gone stark raving bonkers, but I didn't care. In my twenty years as a copper, I've seen things that would make most people vomit with fear: dead bodies, gun fights, and enough blood to fill Harpurhey Swimming Baths. But that greasy-haired git was something else, and he gave me the willies. I didn't want to be in the station a second longer. I knew the fear would dissipate as soon as I was in the familiar surroundings of the The Crown with a pint of mild in my hand and some pork scratchings. And as for the poor, dead bastard behind The Midland; well, whatever trouble he got himself into, I wanted no part of it.

Setting my jaw, I walked straight towards the door of the police station, the heels of my boots clicking on the polished linoleum, promising myself this would be the last bloody Saturday I ever worked.


End file.
